


folie à deux

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Headcanons on tempering, Other, Pre-Canon, melodrama hours start now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18854008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: In a moment of weakness, the past finds Zephirin.





	folie à deux

**Author's Note:**

> leo trapped me in the rarepair pit and now i can't get out? enjoy my attempt at something  
> a lot of hcs here are courtesy of him and his dedication to elves who make Bad Life Decisions

_Ours is the just cause._ The adage imprints itself behind his eyelids, on the flat of his tongue, weaves itself into each labored breath that escapes his nose.

It is the only thought he can hold onto in his throbbing skull, between the molten heat of spitfire, the sharp scent of brimstone, and the piteous cries of dragons. Dravania carries the echoes of death, each one ringing rapturously through the air with jaws of broken fangs, mangled hides of scale, and torn wings.

War - this is a _war._

Metal permeates the air, from both steel and blood. Betrayal is fresh on his tongue, thick and gooey where it sticks to his palate and gushes forth between grit teeth. Divinity tastes warm and bitter and depraved, rather than the cold, soft feathers written in the ink of the Enchiridion. It is _wrong,_ and he wants to scream. (For _who,_ he cannot immediately discern.)

Her ardor pierces his wandering thoughts true as his brothers fend against a horde of ferocious beasts. _And what of you? What of your conviction?_ He grasps his spear made of holy light, tight enough that it sears his palm through his gauntlet - though he has never used one in his life, it fits snugly in his grasp.

Halone's spear is my spear, Her shield my shield, Her fury my fury. The choir grows in volume, empowering him with a surge of unwavering faith through his veins. One set of voices trying to drown out another - Nidhogg screams for vengeance, and Halone returns it in kind with Her own litany. You are radiant, righteous, just. _Holy, holy, holy-_

Spears - three of them, this time - rise to cast judgement thricefold, then break like the violent shattering of ice, fragments of crystal suspended in the air for an endless moment of glory before it falls to the earth--

It absolutely _deafens_ , despite the silence of the sleeping city. Zephirin blinks. Once, twice. Breathes, nearly recoils when the sharp, frigid Coerthan air penetrates his lungs in full. This isn't Dravania, but Ishgard, solid and unforgiving when it shakes him from the visions.

_Another portent._

They've become more frequent as of late, his mind vacuous save for the glory of the Knights Twelve. He knows the reason for this; he was blessed by the Archbishop’s own hand, to better serve under the watchful gaze of the Fury with his head held high. It was a strange sort of communion each time he partook of Her grace, one that would leave his head feeling muddled like the dense fog of the Brume. Any lingering doubt melted away like snow before a voracious hearth, his conviction renewed by what magicks he imbibed.

Only on nights like these - unclouded skies with a low-hanging moon - does he feel a sort of release from its iron hold, a chance to reflect away from the dizzying opulence of the Vault.

Zephirin shivers, the residual numbness falling away. The faint toll of the bell stop Saint Reymanaud’s tells him all he needs to know - it is _late,_ and being awake at this hour is unconscionable. It also tells him he is quite far from the comfort of the Pillars; the debris at his feet is indicative of Foundation, sprawled across the base of the city.

If Janlenoux knew, he would be walked back to his quarters with a firm but soothing hand on his shoulder, a cup of warm tea waiting for him on his nightstand. If Adelphel knew, he would be _dragged_ to his quarters, chastised for derailing both of their sleep cycles when they had duties in the morning.

He would prefer Haumeric’s gentle prayers to lull him to sleep, he thinks. The verses are viscous honey, dripping down the notches in his spine and seeping into his being - prayers for rest, for peace, in what fleeting moments it may come. Nothing as bright and viciously infectious as the archbishop’s will. It heals him slowly and easily, like the man’s own conjury, instead of smearing and smothering his doubts with dazzling radiance even with his eyes closed.

But he is alone, and it is dark. Such indulgence was rare for him. The concept of sleep seems far away, despite the growing shadows beneath his eyes. A walk, perhaps, to induce the semblance of exhaustion. That might help.

He casts his eyes upwards before setting off. Menphina’s hound no longer hangs in the sky but its deep scarlet hue haunts him regardless, the same as slick, glistening red forming rivulets in the crevices in his palms.

Necessary sacrifices, again and again. _Strength is pain, strength is suffering, strength is sacrifice…_

Words from someone he knew long ago - ones not entirely meant for him, but ones he held close regardless. Without thinking, he finds himself standing where they echo loudest, ringing in his skull like church bells from his youth.

In the depths of the Brume, he is nineteen winters old again, waiting among the crumbling stone and recklessly hoping to come across a dark phantom in the broken streets. He remembers their meeting clearly - long after the rest of his fellow knights took to their barracks, he slipped out with a claymore fastened to his back, following only rumors and legends to catch sight of a guillotine through the opaque mist.

He's not sure what could wait for this time. _Hope_ is something Zephirin has tempered, whether it be for someone to sweep him away or cast judgement on his sins. Whatever awaits him - absolution or a reckoning - he intends to receive unflinching. His duties kept him too preoccupied to ponder how he became so _mired_ in this crusade. Nowadays his prayers were quick and fervent, and always met with icy silence no matter how desperate the plea.

Halone knew not of mercy when She burdened him with the truth of the Dragonsong War. He accepted it as penance - for his envy at losing the seat of Lord Commander to de Borel, for accepting Ser Vellguine’s offer without hesitation to sate the unsightly, verdant beast that sank its fangs into his heart. _This_ was to be his higher calling, he thought, to do his house and city proud without the lofty office that was once within his grasp. A seat in the Heavens’ Ward would afford him the opportunity to be a guiding hand to the Archbishop, should His Eminence deign to seek counsel...

Of course, this is his own folly, and one he intends to see through to the bitter end.

Zephirin allows himself to spend a decadent moment of rest among the quiet homes and refuse, gazing out towards the swirling sea of clouds surrounding the city. The archbishop has eyes everywhere, but they're like to be gouged out by the Brume's Watch.

His breaths are slow, close to sleep, and he counts each one as they match the rhythm of his heart. He watches the fog until it coalesces, and a shift in the aether cuts through the vast emptiness of his mind. He turns towards the source of the disturbance, piercing green unfocused.

There's a person here, next to him on his perch of precarious scaffolding. A stranger who is silent as a shadow, another phantom dressed in dark armors instead of the ornate robes of the clergy or polished mail of righteous knights. Though they seem to blend into the night, the face staring ( _glaring_ ) at him is familiar in a way he cannot place, even hidden behind a faceplate and barbut. The eyes are the same, though - sallow and bright enough to singe from a glance in the darkness.

Zephirin’s eye is drawn to the weapon strapped to their back, a faint understanding settling over him like the first flakes of snow. In a fit of sleeplessness, he thinks he would not mind if they were to pass judgement on him here. The mists conjure an image of him falling, swallowed by the clouds forevermore. If that is Halone’s decree, then it is not his place to argue.

Yet the encounter with this reaper makes his memories coagulate, thick and slow like blood. Just as he considers _what_ it could be, not entirely buried or blinded by cleansing flame, a hand wraps around his wrist. “You utter _fool._ Come with me.”

He could easily jerk away or unsheathe his weapon, for this blessing has given him more than enough strength to fend off any gutsy Brume rat harboring a misplaced resentment. But the flicker of aether underneath, through leather and steel, makes him halt. Someone he trusted once - or rather, someone that trusted _him,_ once. Their grip doesn’t feel stifling in the least and he can’t sense any ill intent from here, aside from mild annoyance.

So he lets himself be tugged across uneven stone and up damp wood, nearly tripping given that his captor is nearly half a fulm shorter. Scattered torches across the city make the gilded accents on their plate catch the light in brief flashes, but it doesn't lend anything to piecing their identity together. It's not as if Zephirin has the chance to fixate on that, anyways. Their pace is hurried, lest they been seen by the knights on patrol. Zephirin only registers their flight in passing fragments - the sudden burst of warmth from entering the Forgotten Knight, the sound of a few gil being tossed on the counter, a mattress stuffed with straw digging into his back.

His coat and shirt are hastily pulled off, callused hands roaming over his chest and inspecting him for injury. A thin veil of exhaustion still hangs over him, sticky and membranous, without a sense of immediate danger. He takes to watching the flicker of a lantern cast shadows along the ceilings and walls in spite of his current predicament. They feel deep and heavy, pressing down on him like phantoms. Fury knows he has plenty.

Zephirin’s attention is drawn back when a palmful of aether is _crammed_ into his side without warning, right into the puffy tissue of an old scar garnered from a heretic’s lance, and not at all gently. It is the opposite of Haumeric’s careful weaving, with delicate fingers skirting about tender skin. These hands weld him back together as if hot steel from the forge.

That might be the intent, anyways. He grits his teeth when the visceral sensation of being _alive_ dips into his consciousness. For the first time that night he feels the sharpness of true clarity, and gasps harshly like wavekin plucked straight from the water.

“...Fray?” Is all he can croak when he follows those hands, up their arms and to that face again. They've shed their helm, visage smudged with soot and scarred. Just as he remembered it.

“About time you woke up.” Comes the relieved snort. “You seemed... unwell. Aside from the terrible shadows underneath your eyes, that is.”

Zephirin wonders if that is how he truly seems to another. Fray was always sensitive to the aether, as hyur were wont to be, despite being a mongrel. Of course they'd be able to sense the way the glorious choir entangled itself with his being, near smothering in its embrace.

The scene comes into focus when he sits up and collects himself, swinging his legs off the side of the bed - an inn room at Cloud Nine, with cheap wine bottles strewn about, scuffed floorboards, and a warm hearth. Not his own quarters with his belongings neatly organized. “Beg pardon if I sound ungrateful, but why…?”

“You were like to fall off the scaffolding and break your neck, with the way you were swaying about. Didn't want to get offal on my boots.” They shrug. “Now stay still. I’m not done with you yet.”

Zephirin doesn't know whether to thank them or apologize. Both seem lodged in his throat like a wad of stale bread from communion as he watches their palms warm the surface of his skin again.

The simple command calls to mind the many times Fray had done this before. To him, the memories are stranger than the dreams. Despite how fleeting each rendezvous was, Fray holds a persistent place in his life, between the spaces where he is less than divine. Fray appears in the hours before the dawn, the last breath of life in dying embers, in the shadows out of the corner of his eye on sleepless nights, always transient but damnably _real._ Zephirin can feel the ghostly touch of their hands on pale, scarred skin when they healed his hurts after trading blows.

He watches the other’s face as aether flows between them, their gaze occasionally flicking upwards to meet Zephirin’s own. Fray does not hold him with the same fearful reverence from nobles or boundless admiration from young knights. Fray doesn't even hold onto the same scorn from the slums when he dares to cross the Gates of Judgement in armor the color of fresh snow. Fray is molten gold that seeps through him, inside him, to what wretch he has become in the scant time of four winters.

Zephirin accepts this and does not shrink away. He is certain if he were to be cut open, Fray would discover a vessel filled to bursting with empty, radiant light. But he is proven otherwise when Fray runs a hand across the mottled shades of his bruised ribs, making him suck in a breath. His negligence after the day’s sparring reminds him he is still mortal. He is still _here_.

“You’re lucky Sid wasn’t the one to find you. He’d run you through on sight.” They murmur, finally  pulling their hands away. They’ve certainly gotten better at weaving aether - much better than when they first tried sewing him together.

The mention of Sidurgu makes Zephirin realize just how long it had been since they parted ways. Four years of serving the Archbishop was a blink and eternity all at once. He suspects Fray only knew of him from accolades or occasions where the Heavens’ Ward was paraded about the Pillars; he knew of them from little more than whispers among the Temple Knights’ ranks or a stray report that found its way to his endless stream of papers. He is too close to Halone’s grace to ever be tainted by the mire of the Brume, no matter how much it clings to him.

He idly wonders what Fray is like now. They appear mature, colder than they last were. Zephirin remembers them in their fitful youth, needing to run or spar or fidget with their hands to keep busy, alive, to hear the sound of their own heart.

Those hands, callused and scarred, are clasped in front of them - just under their chin, from where they are slightly hunched over at his bedside. Fray is possessed of a rare moment of stillness and Zephirin finds himself staring without meaning to. The Fury is blessedly merciful, because they don’t notice, head turned towards a corner in the room.

He follows Fray’s gaze to what has captured their attention so intently, and lands upon a curious sight.

 _Shattered Heart_ rests next to _Deathbringer_ against the wall, the holy artifact polished to perfection in contrast to the murk staining the other’s dimmed steel. It looks out of place against the dark walls of the inn room, gilded ivory that reflects the light. A fitting representation of how they've drifted apart.

“ _Shattered Heart._ ” Zephirin offers, breaking the silence.

“What?” Fray turns towards him, brow knitting together in confusion.

“The name of my blade.” He elaborates. “When I entered the Heavens’ Ward, they forged a weapon to my specifications. That is the name I baptized it with.”

“Your holy instrument, eh?” Fray cocks their head towards it. “How does it fare in a skirmish?”

“Against beast, it can carve a mylodon clean through with a single stroke. Against man, it can do the same, if not more.” The first of Ser Ompagne’s lessons hangs in the air between them - two-handed arms like his were made with the intent of culling your fellow man rather than beasts. To bear one upon your back was a plain declaration of your intent.

“Not dulled in the least, then.” Fray replies, albeit absently.

“You’d be surprised at what the Vault’s forgemasters are capable of, despite never creating such an unwieldy arm before.” It fit in his grasp like an extension of himself, surges of aether coursing through it without a hint of resistance. The perfect executioners’ tool when heretics needed to be put down. “A stalwart blade to match my cause. It has yet to fail me.”

“I see. And do you ever mourn it?”

The question catches Zephirin off guard for only a fraction of a second, his expression ever composed. “I don’t have a to right to, do I?”

“That isn’t to say others haven’t done so for you.” Fray says, voice firm.

That gives him pause, and he chooses his next words carefully. Fray is trying to wrest something from him, something that is not his to give anymore. “We walk entirely different paths, but you spoke to me once of yours. Sacrifice - you are familiar with that, are you not? This was mine.”

And by the Fury, did he sacrifice. He sacrificed _so damn much_ of himself to achieve his current position, his former dreams snuffed out when he came across the horrific truth and the deadly necessity of it all. Ser Vellguine’s pride was unwavering when he became Very Reverend Archimandrite; he is unsure if Ser Ompagne would have felt the same way.

“I’ve made my choices. And you’ve made yours.” Zephirin sighs, as if exasperated from reprimanding a child. “Fate did not deign to bind us. You already know this.”

(He was impassive when he slipped into the house sequestered away in the Brume the day before his formal inauguration into the Ward. _To say goodbye,_ he told himself. _Not to search for another reason to hesitate._ He keeps with him the image of Sidurgu, teeth bared and eyes fiery with hatred at his apparent betrayal, and Fray’s calm demeanor, cutting like ice.

Ompagne had left the winter before, and now he was leaving, too. One to Halone’s Halls and the other to their enemies’ open arms. He did not look back.)

“It would be impudent of me to entertain the notion, Ser Very Reverend Archimandrite.” Fray finally says, their voice saturated with sarcasm. “...Fury, that’s a mouthful.”

The walls around them have reformed, lined with barbed steel. Good, Zephirin thinks. It is better that way.

“Still, it's been a while, hasn't it?” Zephirin asks airily, as if he isn't making conversation with one of the most volatile criminals in the eyes of the Holy See. He slips easily into this persona when he’s negotiating with nobles and clergy alike, keeping a practiced distance from what Fray is trying to wring out of him.

“I’d imagine there is at least one reason for that.” Fray retorts, clipped. Bitter.

“I suppose that is mostly due to me.” Because it's not as if Fray and Sidurgu can strut into the Vault as they please. “Should I visit more often?”

And Fray, always composed, always frigid - outright _bristles_ at that, glaring holes through their bangs with eyes as hot as Dravanian spitfire. There are a multitude of things that sit dangerously on their tongue. _We don't need more company when we’ve got a girl not fourteen summers old in our care, no thanks to the Inquisition._

But there is an ingress in their heart where Zephirin’s presence has made a terrible, parasitic home. They won't admit to waiting, on certain nights, for a willowy form to find his way back to the Brume even after partaking of Halone’s light. They _won't._ So they hold their tongue as it chars the inside of their teeth.

“You must be too busy to pay us rats in the Brume a pleasure visit, ser. Who else is supposed to empty the archbishop’s chamber pot and clean his wrinkled taint?”

Zephirin blinks. Members of the Heavens’ Ward put aside their desires for a higher calling, did not consort with sowers of chaos, certainly did not give voice to ties they were supposed to have neatly cut and burnt to cinders. But Zephirin is exhausted, has been for years, and maybe a little delirious, from watching Fray work in the warm candlelight. He’ll blame it on Grinnaux’s brutishness from earlier in the day, he decides. Perhaps his humors haven't completely equilibrated after taking a blow to the ribs.

He outright _barks_ a laugh, Fray’s vulgarity a welcome change from the stiff formalities he’s drowned in. Though sudden puff of air agitates the bruises in his sides, he doesn't mind it.

“...I missed you,” comes the soft admission. He’s never given voice to it until this moment, but he misses everything about them.

All of it comes flooding back - sparring with Sid and Fray in the plains of Coerthas under Ser Ompagne’s watchful eye, offering guidance and praise and teasing jabs. His mentor’s lessons and stories from his days as a Temple Knight, in the comfort of a shabby home when his had been empty for moons. Laying in the lush grasses of the central highlands with swords lost among the blades, basking in the sun while a breeze pulls the clouds across a vast sky. Listening to the rush of wind without the stone of the city to bind him or his brazen companions, the ache in his limbs trivial when he felt so _free_.

The air turns sharp and fragile with those three words, like a glass chalice of Halone’s ruby blood balanced precariously on the altar. Fray looks like they want to break his nose.

They don't move when Zephirin meets their eyes, holding something pained and burning. It’s not because of the way he's learned to read a man’s intent in the convoluted dance of Ishgardian politics - but because they are the same Brumeling he knew years ago, their guarded feelings near plain to him after trading swings of a sword and spending fleeting nights by the light of the stars, sharing intangible dreams and whispered secrets.

Fray is less than an arm’s length away from where they are sitting in a shoddy chair next to the bed. Zephirin tentatively reaches out and grasps the back of their neck, fingers brushing the unevenly cut hair at their nape.

Zephirin doesn't fight it when Fray pulls him close by the shoulders, and leans in with lips parted in a gasp of surprise and anticipation. The clatter of wood on the floor is a dim and faraway sound when Fray has forgone the chair to stand over him, between his knees, to better claim him.

There are no sparks or shattering stars when they meet, nothing like the scandalous tales told at balls by tittering noblewomen who brandished their first forays as if weapons and trophies. Instead, it warms Zephirin slowly from the inside, makes his chest ache to the core to have them this close. Fray’s angle is clumsy and eager and their nose bumps his, but it is pleasant all the same. Weight settles into his bones again, his hands roaming to cup their cheek.

Zephirin’s lips are still slightly chilled from being outside while Fray’s are hot, tongue and grazes of teeth searing him. They kiss as if close to sparring - ruthless, with a contagious fervor. Fray’s facade is unyielding ice, but Zephirin gets a taste of the deluge of emotions welling up from the precarious cracks in the surface.

 _I missed you, too,_ is what the breath brushing his lips says when Fray pulls away.

A tremolo prickles at the back of his mind in the quiet that follows. The breadth between them is suddenly a chasm, when guilt crawls up Zephirin’s spine. This is... _wrong,_ somehow. It borders on sacrilegious in the eyes of both gods and man, to indulge in such gentle affection tinged by the abyss. Yet Fray burns brightly with yearning, so much that it's singed the places where their touch lingers.

“Fray, we cannot-” Zephirin nudges them back when they’re lining his jaw with the brush of their lips. Fray has so much to _give,_ and wants to take more than what Zephirin deserves to relinquish. “We cannot pursue this.”

Whatever _this_ may be - whether pent-up curiosity from their adolescence or an addled whim in the sparse hours of the morning. Fray stands upright, the hand carefully holding the side of Zephirin’s face falling away.

“Believe me, it's nothing so sentimental.” They say, lips twitching upwards the barest amount. Nothing so grand or beautiful when the imposing spires of each cathedral and tower make anything that could be held in a heart seem insignificant.

“What, then, is it?”

“I wanted you to stay.” Their voice is softer, barely masking the way it breaks. “I don't know.” They quickly add, shaking their head and obscuring their eyes with their messy bangs.

They sound smaller than before, the last faults in the ice fraught with loss and pain and the things that make them more _mortal_ than ghastly specter in the streets. To anyone else, it would seem out of place, perhaps. But Fray was always by his side in the darkest of nights, and always had faith he was a good person, Temple Knight or not.

And, well. Look at him now - closer to the Fury than before in station, yet the furthest from absolution he has ever been.

“I’m sorry.” Zephirin says, the back of his hand brushing Fray’s scarred cheek. He feels as though he is soothing a wounded direwolf; thankfully, Fray isn't petulant enough to sink their teeth into the flesh of his fingers.

Instead, they sigh, leaning into his touch and letting their eyes slide shut. It is not forgiveness - it is that stillness again, far from where knights march under the Fury’s gaze and pariahs seek to repent in blood. Words are fruitless now. Zephirin doesn't dare move, and commits to memory the way their aether swirls beneath the skin.

“I should leave.” Away from the dark wood and flicker of fire, to the vast and pristine rooms of the Vault. The time between them feels endless, even though it hasn't been more than a bell.

Zephirin stands, pulls his stray garments back on. Fray has righted the chair again and is sitting in it, elbows on their knees, staring at the wall as if it is far more interesting than the knight he shared warmth with moments, years, a lifetime ago. It is silent.

He pauses before breaching the door. “I’ll entrust what remains of it to you, if you'll have it.”

“And what if I don't want it?” Fray immediately asks. _What if I don't want the shards of your naivety, of past hopes?_

“It is yours to do with as you please.” Zephirin says, his hand on the lock. “Spurn it, or keep it close. Just know that it has been yours from the first.”

They say nothing in return. Fray clenches their fist, to either crush it or engrave it in their palm. Zephirin makes note of the motion in his periphery before unfastening the clasp on the door.

“Take care.” Fray is unmoving from their spot even as they toss a parting glance towards him. “And don't forget your ungodly contraption of a sword. Fury knows _I_ don't want the damned thing.”

Zephirin leaves with _Shattered Heart_ on his back and doesn’t wait for Fray to say anything more. He doesn't _want_ them to speak another word, whether it be cutting wit or a sincere confession, lest he be truly tempted to stay.

(Once, he hoped Fray would grasp his wrist in the same way so he could run far from duty, tradition, every stifling thing that punctures and suffocates under the pretense of honor and glory. A part of him still does.)

Zephirin braves the cold night to get what precious rest he can before dawn, watching his own nervous breaths form white clouds as he walks. He gazes upwards as he follows the path to the Pillars, this time mentally tracing the shape of Halone’s three spears in the shining, shimmering constellations winking in and out of existence. Zephirin beseeches Her for guidance and conviction in this lapse of weakness. Even so, he’s certain he will forget the encounter soon, regardless if he wants to.

The choir grows louder the closer he gets to the Pillars, the next toll of the bell matching his pulse. Their voices are joyous when they receive him into their fold, wrap him in holy verses from the Enchiridion until he ascends alongside them. Of burdens he has innumerable, yet his vindication inevitable. Such was the Archbishop’s will.

He hesitates before climbing the stairs to the sanctuary of the Vault.

“Fury keep you.”

For the moments between savage swings of his blade, the shuddering breath before hands are clasped in prayer, in the hours where the light of the Fury’s grace could not reach. He prays one last time for them before he crosses the threshold of the Vault’s heavy doors.


End file.
